


Boys on Film

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, kinkmeme fill, sex on film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never took the advice of friends who told him filming private time was a bad idea.  Sherlock (and the Yard) find some old 'home movies' John made for money back in University and John's week goes into a tailspin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, this is the name of a series of porn films. Go figure, lol. TBH I was thinking of the Duran Duran song “Girls on Film” when I chose the title, lol. Written for this prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic meme: <http://tinyurl.com/3uh2asj> .

 

John knew that his week had been going far too well. Not a single row with a chip and PIN machine, not one instance of a patient being sick all over him, every train was on time, every suspect was slow and rather stupid, and Sherlock had not put one experiment in the microwave, oven, tub or mug. The week, he realized, had been saving up, waiting for the right time to dump a big, steaming pile of shit right on top of him. And the week chose to do it in Met’s forensics lab, as Lestrade and Sherlock and Donovan and two computer forensic specialists took apart Gary Binford’s hard drive, file by file. “Anything yet?” Lestrade asked, voice weary and rough. He had given in and smoked half a pack of cigarettes over the course of the evening, and John suspected that Sherlock had, as well. Binford’s computer was a morass of pornography, most of it innocuous and bland (by John’s admittedly private standards) but Sherlock had declared that this man was the one who had the original copy of a snuff film that had been mentioned on certain chat rooms, the unfortunate subject of which had been found two days before in a skip behind Lucky Star Imports and Deli.

“Nothing,” Jensen, one of the computer forensics experts sighed. “One thousand down, infinity to go.”

“Goddamn,” murmured the other scientist, a woman Lestrade referred to as Davis, no first name. “This man must either have the forearms of a god or carpal tunnel syndrome from Hell.”

“He’s not using these films for his own gratification,” Sherlock snapped, obviously annoyed (thought, really, he was rarely in any other mood around others). “He collects them from his suppliers. He’s the...distributor,” he finished, waving his fingers dismissively. “Unless it’s for something very specialized, very expensive. Like the film starring Cindy Gold.”

“Christ’s sake, Sherlock! She’s a victim, not a porn star!”

John opened his mouth to say something, anything, to head Sherlock’s incipient rant off at the pass, but Davis and Jensen both gasped and shut off their screens at the same time. They were, John realized, staring at him with wide, startled eyes and Davis,for her part, was fighting a smile. “What?”

“Um, I think we’ve got it from here, Detective Inspector,” Jensen said after a very obvious pause. “If you lot want to take off for the evening...”

“No,” Lestrade cut him off. “We’re close. And I have orders from on high to see this through personally.” He shot a glare at Sherlock there. “To make sure the proper methods are followed.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but remained silent, lips pursed like an old maid’s. “What’s going on? Oh, God, it’s not kids, is it? Tell me it’s not kids...”

Davis shook her head and, still staring at John, asked in a purring sort of voice, “Doctor Watson, did you ever take any acting classes?”

“Wha--No, no I didn’t. What’s this about?” He moved around the table to see the powered-down screens. “Sherlock, did you see...?”

“No, but I might be starting to. What did you find, Davis?”

Jensen and Davis exchanged glances and, with an apologetic look from Jensen and a barely- stifled giggle from Davis, they brought up their screens again. The picture was blurry, the film paused while the subjects were in motion. Sherlock huffed a sigh of annoyance and hit the ‘play’ button as the others stared, silent and awkward, at the monitors. The film itself was black and white, meant to look artistic if the spartan set and vaguely French crooning in the background was anything to go by. John felt the blood drain from his face. He tried to make words come out but all he managed was a strangled, vaguely canine, whine as the figure in the shadows on the film stepped out into the slice of light illuminating the bed. His younger self was naked as the day he was born, sporting a (very enviable and hard, his almost middle aged self supplied rather bitterly) very impressive erection. His film-self knelt up on the bed and, eyes closed, began to stroke his cock slowly, deliberately. It wasn’t a porno wank, fast and slick with lube, intended just for the money shot and nothing else. This was a private moment caught on film, meant to be artistic and erotic. Lestrade, Sherlock, Jensen and Davis were staring at the screen, Sherlock looking almost hysterically gobsmacked. John looked anywhere but at the screen, noting Lestrade’s dull flush and grimly set mouth, the two techs looking salaciously interested but striving to appear professional. On screen, his younger self was now sprawled on his back, his private wank still deliciously slow. He knew what was coming ( _ha!_ ) next. A stocky, dark-haired young man stepped into the frame and said something that couldn’t be heard over the music, then climbed up on the bed next to John. The older John wasn’t sure who made the sound as Mike Stamford’s head burrowed between his younger self’s thighs, but the high-pitched gasp was enough to break the spell. Jensen hit ‘stop’ and shut off the screen. John took a deep breath and forced himself to attention as eight eyes turned to stare. “I was twenty years old. It was a lark.” He shrugged with poorly affected nonchalance. “I got a hundred quid for that one and a hundred apiece for six others. And no, Lestrade, I wasn’t forced into it. However Binford got this, it wasn’t because he taped me--us--himself or forced someone to give it to him.” John took a breath and, feeling the blush creeping up his neck, nodded to the assembled group. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.” As exits went, he knew that it was lame, but at that point, it was either flee or burst into flames. And as much as he wished he could will himself to immolate, he knew flight was less likely to end with Sherlock poking at his remains and declaring death by porn.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wrapped the Binford case mere hours after the cinematic interlude from John’s university days. Lestrade had kept mum about the visual aide to John Watson’s wedding tackle, and Donovan seemed to have lost all ability to speak (Impressed size queen, Sherlock thought almost distractedly). The techs had offered to erase the file but Lestrade had, reluctantly, declined. If it came out that he had authorized the destruction of evidence... Sherlock sighed, huffed in impatience, and tried not to think of any of them sneaking glimpses at that video again, striding from the Met as if the hounds of Hell were at his heels.

John was not at home, which made Sherlock’s evening both easier and far more frustrating. He wanted to stare at him, compare the John he knew with the John from the film, make now-John demonstrate just how his body had changed, what control he had gained over those moans, those little gasps, that lovely tremor that shook his body as Mike Stamford took his whole cock in one slow slide down his throat... then he wanted to make John forget all of those lessons, all of that mastery and make him whimper and moan and gasp. He wanted John to show him how he made Stamford moan, and show his dear blogger that he was better, that he was positively salivating for the feel of that thick cock in his arse, his throat, his hands... Had been for months, if he were to be honest (and he so often was, except for when he wasn’t). It had all been superfluous data, really, this wanting John and needing him, needing him in new ways, but impossible for him to delete (John Watson, desire for: file next to Solar System, what the fuck).  
Shaking loose from his thoughts (in as much as he could), he took a quick glance at the living room and saw that not only was John not home, he had not even stopped by after leaving the Yard. Sherlock decided that time was of the essence--John would not go long without tea, dinner, or a shower unless they were actively on a case and he knew for a fact that Sarah was unlikely to provide any of those things, not with a new lover taking up most of her time, so he set to work on his own computer, delving into the depths of the internet’s dark and dusty corners. By the time the front door to 221 opened three hours later, Sherlock had found everything he was looking for, and more besides. He managed to assume his now-typical gargoyle posture, crouched on the sofa and eyes narrowed, as John entered the flat.

“Sherlock.”

“John.” Six movies, including the black and white faux-art film I saw at the Yard. One solo movie, lasting ten minutes and involving anal penetration with a dildo, one more with Stamford involving a shower and oral sex, one involving John receiving what is referred to as a facial, at two that were a loose collection of scenes involving toys, different male partners, and John by himself, wanking as if he had all the time in the world. The catalog sped through his mind at lightening speed, John still taking off his jacket and hanging it on the peg by the door as Sherlock licked his lips, imagining each glimpse of John from those films, each tiny little noise and thrust and... “John,” he began, only to be cut off by a rough sigh from the man himself.

“Go ahead then, I knew that I couldn’t avoid it forever.” He dropped into his favorite chair and closed his eyes. “Do your worst.”  
“Really, John, what must you think of me?” He smirked at John’s own grimace of amusement. “I simply wish to know if you are the one who had the films...hidden away. It took me simply hours to find them.”

John’s eyes flew open at that. “I... Sherlock! I’d say you were invading my privacy but even I know that won’t fly... Fine, Stamford’s father in law found out about the movies and he sued the distributor. Threw some more money around and had them suppressed as best as could.” He scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands and asked, “Where the Hell did you find them?”

“A Russian-run pornography site. If it helps, they weren’t very high in the hits.”

A rueful smile and then, “I’m not sure if I’m relieved or if my vanity is wounded.”

Sherlock breathed a silent chuckle and decided that now, the time was now. “I must admit that those movies do answer a few questions I have been entertaining for some months now. You’re on the high end of average,” he gave John’s crotch a meaningful look, “and you do have experience with men. And you enjoyed it.”

“Ah... Mike and I were just mates. We couldn’t look at each other for weeks after that. We don’t even talk about it. Ever.”

“Mmm. What if it had been me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Really, John, must you? If it had been me in Stamford’s place.” He raised a brow at John’s stunned expression. “I’m not a cold fish, you know. You pique my interest, John Watson, and now that I have conclusive evidence that you’re not adverse to a bit of...” he waved his hand, unable to think of a suitable euphemism that wasn’t straight out of Victorian porn, “I thin it’s time I tell you that I’m attracted to you. You excite me almost as much as a locked room mystery. Possibly as much as.”

John’s stunned expression became neutral, then grim. “If this is some experiment, Sherlock--”

Sherlock slid from the sofa and knee-walked the few feet to John, resting his hands on the doctor’s knees. “It isn’t.”

“...oh.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

John had often heard about out of body experiences, mostly during his morgue rotation in med school and then later, treating the wounded at the field hospitals, but he had never expected to experience one himself. Every sensation, every flicker of movement seemed to be happening from afar. He could see, in his mind’s eye at least, how it all looked: Sherlock’s dark head bent over him, long fingers working open the zip on John’s trousers, a rough sigh that came from one or both of them--John wasn’t quite sure--and then... Then, it all slammed back into John’s skull with sharp, color-saturated clarity. The first thing he thought was _I wonder if that’s cologne or aftershave?_ , then erupted into an aborted giggle-fit at the mental picture of Sherlock choosing a scent using his science of deduction. This earned a glare from the vicinity of his lap and a tight. possessive squeeze to his thighs. “Sorry,” he managed. “Just...your cologne... You don’t wear it often.”

“Borneo 1834,” Sherlock said, shrugging. “I don’t wear scent when actively on a case.”

“Just when you’re about to blow your flatmate?”

“Really, John,” he tsk’d, but there was no mistaking the very slight curve of his lips that would have been an outright grin on anyone else.

John’s response was lost in a gasp as Sherlock leaned forward, breath warm and damp, teasing his cock to fullness. _Never mind out of body experience,_ John thought as his breath caught in his throat and eyes rolled back in his head, Sherlock’s tongue licking teasingly around the head of his cock and darting to lap at the edge of his foreskin, _I think I’m having a stroke._ Eyes fixed on the ceiling but unseeing, John could only focus on the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth, the clever way his fingers pushed and prodded until two of them wiggled beneath his balls, pressing just _so_ against is perineum. He hadn’t felt so hard, so close so fast, since uni, since before the Army. He pushed away niggling thoughts about Sherlock watching those old films, about this whole thing being some experiment, a chance to observe the British bisexual male in action. With a rolling flick of his tongue, Sherlock closed that door in John’s thoughts firmly and decisively.

Sherlock felt a savage surge of satisfaction and pleasure as John groaned, eyes fluttering closed. He sucked gently on John’s cock, enough to tease and keep him hard, his fingers rubbing firm circles just beneath the other man’s balls. Part of him, part that he kept trying to delete, to consign to a tiny little dark room in the back of his brain where he could forget it existed and let it whither and die, that part of him wanted nothing more than to make John forget any sexual experience he had ever had before this one. Seeing him on film had been...arousing, to say the least, but when the path of his thoughts ( _How badly did John need the money? Why couldn’t he have taken a job working in a shop? Did his family not save any money for his schooling? Is he truly bisexual or was he...oh, that phrase...gay for pay? He’s not stopping me. In fact, the hand on my head says he’s doing quite the opposite..._ Sherlock did not manage to stifle the groan that rumbled through his chest as he tasted the fluid leaking from John’s cock and the resulting breathless chuckle from his partner only served to make him redouble his efforts. _If you’re laughing, I’m not doing well enough. I want you out of breath, panting, begging... not giggling like a sixth former getting his first blowie behind the chippy._

John barely had time to register Sherlock’s growl before he felt his cock engulfed entirely in the lush warmth of the detective’s mouth, bottoming out against his throat. “Oh, fuck!” His fingers tangling in the thick, almost coarse curls tickling his thighs, John had a brief and fluttering curiosity as to which one of the movies had triggered this response in Sherlock and felt a pang of something akin to pride that he, plain John Watson, had been able to entice Sherlock Holmes to his knees. _But it’s not you anymore ,is it? That was you almost twenty years ago. The you now...well, you wouldn’t exactly be winning any Woodies at the AVNs would you?_

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock ordered after pulling away with a lewd, wet, slurping noise. “Those films,” he continued, tugging and pulling at John’s trousers and pants, yanking until they were off his legs entirely and tossed into the farthest corner he could manage, “merely flamed the sparks I had already been nurturing.”

“Poetic,” John teased, voice shaking. “Not like you.”

“Mmmm. Let’s not tell anyone, shall we?” He dove between John’s spread legs, pushing them up and back so they rested on the arms of the comfy chair. “I want to mark you, John, ruin you for others...” He took one of John’s hands and pressed it against the spit-slick erection. “Stroke yourself, John. Come for me.” He leaned that last fraction of an inch forward and, without further warning, began to trace the tip of his tongue over John’s perineum, light as a feather to make John tremble and whimper. Sherlock inhaled the dark and musky scent of him, felt it curl in his chest and belly. His own erection was throbbing, just short of painful, but this...this was so much more important. He licked harder, the sound of John’s gasping groans and the slide of hand against cock pushing the last stray thought from his mind.

John didn’t let himself think about how simply dirty it felt, legs splayed wide and Sherlock laving, lapping at him like a thirsty man finding water in the desert. He was babbling, he knew, nonsense mixed with begging, pleading, words like “lush” and “fuck” and “gorgeous” mingled with grunts and whines and whimpers. At the first press of Sherlock’s tongue against his fluttering hole, John thought he might come up and off the chair entirely. He felt rather than heard his (lover? flatmate? fuckbuddy?) hum against the sensitive skin there, a murmur of delight and appreciation that John mirrored, stroking himself harder,flicking his thumb across the head of his cock, wishing like Hell he was bent over, that Sherlock was pounding into him but oh _God_ his tongue, the hard and soft licks and the nips and sucking and-- “Fuck, you’re making me come!” John cried just a moment before thick spurts of his release splashed onto his jumper and hand, trickling down his balls. Sherlock hummed again and licked away the traces of come that made it to his mouth before reluctantly pulling away, moving up to lap at the come on John’s fingers and cock. “I’m afraid I can’t quite bring myself to lick the jumper,” Sherlock breathed, resting his forehead on John’s thigh. “John...”

He laughed brokenly, the places where Sherlock licked cooling and making him shiver. “You just ate my arse out but wool is off limits.”

Sherlock tilted his face to one side and raised a brow. “A man has his standards, John.” There was the space of a breath, then they both broke into giggles. Eventually, they faded into silence and Sherlock felt moved to speak. “This isn’t a one off, you know.”

“I...I was hoping not.” He swallowed, shifting to bring his knees together, heels still resting on Sherlock’s shoulders. “But what is it?”

“A mystery,” he smiled. “Might be dangerous.”

“Hopefully not too often.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock nuzzled the roughly haired thigh gently. “Seeing you like that...it drove me mad. I wanted it for myself.”

“Looks like you have it,” John sighed. “This isn’t an experiment, is it?”

“No...you’ll know when I want to experiment on you. I’ll ask you to sign a consent form.”

“Ah, you must like me.” They fell into companionable silence, John skirting the edges of post orgasmic sleep and Sherlock letting his brain engage once more. John’s birthday wasn’t too far off, he knew. Maybe the doctor would like his own Sherlock film festival. He had time to create...


End file.
